Hilariously Ever After

by Penny Reid

  It was only a very shallow cut he sustained, and considering he opened six oysters, I personally felt like he was a natural.

  “Now when people taste wine, they use all kinds of descriptors to tell other people what they’re experiencing. You might be surprised to learn that oysters have a taste range just as vast as our favorite grape juices.” At this, Marc and I were both nodding arrogantly. We had so many descriptors. Perhaps they were always wrong, but we had pockets full of them.

  For example, only five minutes before the oyster shucking, we had both agreed we were enjoying a crisp glass of peach and honey-noted chardonnay.

  It was pear and green tea.

  My personal consensus was rapidly becoming that the people who wrote those notes on the bottles were just generally drunk. Or flat out making things up. Either way, I just knew we were going to kill it on the oysters.

  We adorned our first varietal with drops of lemon juice and dabs of horseradish, and then sipped our little meats out of the shells. Our eyes were locked. They widened together. His watered. Mine did a bit of the same. I swallowed.

  So that was an oyster.

  “I got hints of ocean…” Marc said tentatively.

  “Overtones of mucus,” I added. He nodded. I nodded back. It turned out oysters weren’t turning either of us on. Unspoken, our thoughts seemed to communicate. Who needed oysters when you could mind meld? I swept our remaining four bivalves (I totally stole that word from Chef) into the trash as Marc refilled our wine glasses.

  Appetizer was becoming a very apt name, as my appetite had only grown after we threw our first course out.

  My lips were feeling a tad bit numb, which I also chalked up to the seafood, because the rest of my body was starting to feel very sensitive. The heat of the kitchen, the scents in the air, the wine in my glass, and the proximity of Marc… well, it was all a bit dizzying.

  I brushed against him more often than I needed to as we prepped our next dish. It wasn’t just because I was starving that I was jazzed for it—it was also going to be the fanciest thing that had ever gone into my mouth. There were figs. There was a kind of fresh mozzarella and cream mixture called burrata. And there were goddamn truffles. On top of pasta, which meant automatically that I was going to like it, because a bad pasta is kind of like a bad taco—a myth.

  After receiving all our instructions, we started cooking. A pot of salted water waited to boil on our stove. We each had a cutting board and a sharp knife, Marc seemingly no worse for the wear after the Oyster Incident. Also, the Culinary Center kept Star Wars Band-Aids on hand, so.

  I assigned myself the burrata. With every slice of my knife, cream pooled across my cutting board, and onto my fingers. I licked my first fingertip. It was salty, creamy, thick, rich. It was fucking sexy.

  I ran my finger through the cream again and offered it to Marc. His tongue delicately grazed my skin, but it sent shock waves all the way down to my core. I dipped my finger again, and brought it back to his mouth. The heat of it, the anticipation of it… unf. When he licked me, I swear I felt as melty as the cheese.

  “Ahem,” said the long-suffering chef. We were developing quite the pattern of PDA. I regretted nothing.

  Apparently, neither did Marc, because he bumped my arm one more time before returning to fig duty. We drank our glasses of wine when the water came to a boil, so that we could have fresh ones with our pasta. I had to admit that even though the sexual tension was still as thick as the burrata waiting on my board, we’d settled into a really comfortable routine. It was nice to work so well with someone. I couldn’t think of another time in my life when that had happened to me.

  Certainly never with a boyfriend. Not that—of course Marc wasn’t—nor would he be, but. Suddenly I understood why people waxed so poetic about the idea of relationships. Why girls I knew (cough, Ava) fell in love constantly. This was a nice feeling. One that I didn’t know was missing from my previous two boyfriends.

  It turned out that we really were just friends who happened to do it. Except that’s what Marc and I were, too, right? Minus the doing it part. Yet. Tonight was going to be the night, I just knew it, because everything was going like a dream. Underneath my skater dress, I was wearing black lace, even.

  So what had I been missing with the other two guys? Besides the lace. Maybe just seduction, I thought. I drained the pasta while Marc pulled plates out of the warmer and fetched more wine.

  Seduction was the name of the game. And once we’d beaten it, I would be free to go find someone new to seduce. And Marc would be free to voules vou couchez avec moi all over France. The sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought had nothing to do with the fact that the Moulin Rouge soundtrack would now be stuck in my head all night. It wasn’t jealousy I felt. It was just that I didn’t like to think about the end before the actual beginning. Right?

  Thanks be to Olympus, there was the full glass of wine right there to distract me.

  “Jam,” I said.

  “Grape jam,” said Marc.

  “I don’t even know why you two are still trying,” said the wine guy, passing our station.

  “Rude,” I said.

  “Accurate,” corrected Marc. It was safe to say we were both feeling the wine. Luckily, our entrée was ready to soak up a little of that excess grape jam. And it smelled delicious. The truffles were earthy, the figs were sweet, and I could not wait to get it into my mouth. Marc twirled some pasta around his fork expertly and then held it up so I could have the first bite.

  It was slightly underdone. Maybe more than slightly. You really had to chew those noodles. It turns out that al-dente doesn’t mean what we thought it meant.

  But it was still tasty. And fun. And I maybe licked the cutting board when no one was looking so that none of the burrata went to waste. Because I am civic-minded like that. You are welcome, world.

  Dessert was planned to be a decadent chocolate mousse. I was really excited about that one. Oysters weren’t going to feature in any future dinner party menus at my place, and I was never going to afford truffles, but chocolate? Now that was something I was planning to add to my repertoire. It would certainly be more impressive than my scrambled eggs, but the instructions we had looked almost as easy.

  We bungled another glass of wine (how many was that? I decided I didn’t care.) and then it was off to the races.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to demonstrate my sweet one-handed egg-cracking technique after so many wines, but really—if I had pulled it off, I would have been a hero. It was a risk I was willing to take.

  Unfortunately, instead I just learned a valuable lesson about how difficult it is to clean raw egg off of Converse. What, you thought that just because I was wearing a dress and fancy underwear that I would also have put on heels? Even I, inexperienced as I was, understood that watching me lurch around on heels would have been a real turnoff. Probably YouTube gold, but still a turnoff.

  I learned another valuable lesson during the mixing portion. It is also imperative that you gently raise the beaters while powering them down. Pro-tip. Because the ensuing chocolate explosion is not what they mean when they say lava cake. I did, however, take advantage of the opportunity to lick a few stray blobs of batter off of Marc’s neck.

  He shivered visibly. I took a large swallow of my cabernet to distract myself from the visions of him doing that as I ran my tongue down the ridges of his abs. Briefly, I wondered what would happen if I swept everything off our work station and just ripped his clothes off right here and now. I decided the likelihood of arrest was outweighed by the likelihood of injury. Once the mousse was properly chilled, I had to admit I was starving.

  So was Marc. We devoured our chocolate in less time than it took to realize that yet again, we were too drunk. Marc pulled up his Uber app while I begged leftover mousse off of the couple next to us.

  Eating it in the back of the car may have shifted my ranking down, but I didn’t even mind. I had been right about the dessert; it was something I
was actually capable of making, although I was rapidly discovering I was not capable of sharing.

  “Get off,” I told Marc. “Hey, driver, can you hit a drive-through on our way home?”

  “You sexy beast,” Marc whispered in my ear. “I am gonna murder some fries. And guess what. They are French.” He laughed and laughed, although I personally didn’t think it was so funny.

  In fact, I felt it was in pretty poor taste. When you are with your screwmate, you should probably not be bringing up your future conquests. That was my justification for eating half his fries, along with my own. And a burger. And some nuggets. I know you aren’t supposed to tip your Uber guy, but I definitely “accidentally” dropped a twenty in his passenger seat on my way out.

  Marc didn’t even say goodnight so much as I just heard noises trailing him as he veered his way from wall to wall on his way to his room.

  “Another failed seduction,” I thought, as I took off my grown-up bra and panties and poked my foot around to find the leg-hole of my Hulk underoos. As I missed, overreached, and fell to the ground, I reflected that perhaps it was for the best.

  Chapter 10

  The next day’s plans involved sulking, pouting, and aspirin—not necessarily in that order. After washing down a healthy dose of all three with a rather unhealthy-sized dose of coffee, I was in a sufficient state of mind to consider the previous night. My strategy had been sound, I was certain, and yet I had not won a battle so far.

  Yes, I was starting to think of breeching Marc’s castle walls as a sort of siege. And the living area was about to become the War Room. Seeing as he was in meetings all day of his own, and all.

  I threw myself back into the cushions of the beige couch. I had grown very fond of the old guy in our months together. Sometimes it was okay to be boring, if you were reliable and comfortable. Oh, drats, I realized—I was in a long-term relationship with the couch.

  It seemed to me that the common denominator in several of the failed seductions was the fact that Marc and I were drinking entirely too much wine. I didn’t believe that either of us was a secret alcoholic, but the numbers didn’t lie. We were guzzling several times the recommended weekly average in every sitting. Because of France. And science.

  A little voice in the back of my head wondered if we were self-sabotaging because we were nervous about closing the deal. First I threatened to drown the voice in even more wine, and then I reminded it that even if I was nervous, there was no reason for Marc to be. Not that I was nervous. Much. Just baring my body and soul to the sexiest man I had ever met, and knowing that if it was horrible and I embarrassed myself, I’d still have to look at him every morning. No big deal. Nothing to worry about.

  But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? That by exposing the most vulnerable parts of me to the guy who shares my water bill, I’d somehow prepare myself for doing the same thing with a stranger later.

  Weirdly, even though that was the whole point of everything, I found myself recoiling a little from the idea of a stranger in my future. I mean, of course I knew that anyone I started dating wouldn’t remain a stranger for long, it’s just that… well, I liked what I already had. Shaking my head, I reminded myself that I didn’t exactly have anything. Except perhaps a touch of social anxiety. Actually, that explained everything.

  My tendency to drink a little too much when the specter of sex reared its head, my sudden new desire not to find a boyfriend—I couldn’t believe I hadn’t self-diagnosed earlier. It all made so much sense. I fired off a text to the girls immediately. As per the usual, the replies were mixed.

  Scarlett: This explains a lot

  Ava: U just need some eggplant emoji lolol

  Lizzie: We don’t joke about mental illness sweetie I knew Marc was a bad idea

  I both loved and hated my friends. On one hand, I got a perfect cross-section of opinions, but on the other, I got a perfect cross-section of opinions. Disregarding the opinions I didn’t like, I sent my next text to Scarlett alone.

  Will I ever get eggplant emoji-d? Maybe I should come to Bible group. Or group therapy. Whatever you suggest.

  She didn’t answer for long enough that I wasn’t surprised when the text finally came through.

  I’m sorry, but no. To both.

  I couldn’t even be truly irritated, because she was right. To both. I made myself a coffee and took off my bathrobe. Did a little work on my Screwmates comic. How did I have five thousand reblogs on the last one? The first few only had a hundred or so. I bet it was a glitch. Or at least a fluke. After all, even with a provocative title like the one I’d used, there was just no way that many people were looking at my work.

  Or at least, I swallowed my nervousness down, I hoped there weren’t that many eyeballs on me.

  Next I checked my email. Awaiting me was something that was supposedly from an agent, but I know a scam when I see one, so I didn’t open it. An agent did sound really nice, though, so I decided to double down on the webcomic. If I could get a couple more “episodes” inked in advance, I could consider doing a print run.

  I mean, I knew it would mostly just sell to friends and family—scratch that. It would never, ever be seen by family. But the girls would definitely buy copies, and I did have a small following locally, enough to justify the cost of a small batch. I could afford to do twenty-five or thirty.

  Just the thought of having actual comic books instead of just a website with a bunch of superhero concepts and a handful of characters that looked cool on shirts really energized me. So I got a little carried away and had done several pages when the sound of a key in the lock suddenly startled me out of my zone.

  I scrambled for my bathrobe, but it was too late. Marc was already gazing at my Adventure Time pajamas… complete with a Jake the Cat hat.

  “I like that show,” he finally said. I was learning more and more about him, and understanding less and less. I certainly wouldn’t have been wearing those had I realized he was on his way, though. Or would I? I definitely would have been wearing the bathrobe. And would have also washed the ink stains off my right forearm. But there he was, walking through the door with a bottle of wine that appeared pretty nice to my untrained eyes.

  And it wasn’t a jumbo bottle, either. Just a normal sized one. And dangling from his arm was a bag of groceries. What ho! I jumped up to help put stuff away, but he waved me off.

  “Let me go throw some jeans on, at least,” I said.

  “Why bother? You look comfortable. In fact, I might change into a pair of sweats myself. Can you rinse off the veggies for me?” He didn’t wait for a response, just gave me one of those devastating grins as he headed back to his room. Utterly unfair. With that smile, he could make me do absolutely anything at all. Lucky for me that he used his powers for good, and not in a Jessica Jones way.

  I could barely cook, but rinsing vegetables was a skillset I possessed. One by one, I pulled things out of the bag. There was a head of lettuce, dirt still clinging to the outer leaves. Tomatoes, sun-warm and plump. Green beans, colorful peppers, and even some fuzzy green things that a quick google image search informed me were okra in their natural state.

  Here I thought their natural state was deep-fried and served next to a platter of burnt end barbecue. What can I say, I’m not the farmer around the house.

  I set my phone down and started drying things just as Marc walked back out. Imagine my joy when I saw that the pair of sweats he had put on apparently didn’t have a top half. The drawstring top hung loosely from his hips, allowing every bit of that farm-raised chest and abdomen to be on glorious display.

  He must have noticed the way I enjoyed watching those muscles flex as he began to chop veggies and heat pans, but he was too polite to tell me to stop drooling. Soon enough, the kitchen was filling up with amazing smells and I was drooling for entirely different reasons.

  “I didn’t think you were much of a cook,” I said, wondering if he’d been putting on an act at the cooking class.

  “Oh, I can
’t make fancy things. This is just a garden dinner.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Like your mom made.”

  A slideshow of the dinners my mother had cooked over the years ran through my head. Sandwiches, frozen things, the week she’d tried out the cabbage soup diet which meant me and Dad were also on the cabbage soup diet until we mutinied with a giant Chinese takeout order…

  “Yep, just like Mom,” I told him. “I’d offer to help, but you seem to have it all under control.”

  “You could open the wine,” he suggested. Wine uncorking was another skill I was confident in, so I poured us each a glass. Since it wasn’t a giant bottle, I poured smaller servings. It kind of looked like how they serve it in restaurants. I admired my handiwork, and then returned to admiring Marc’s body.

  “So, how were the meetings?” I asked. “Also, what were the meetings?” Truly, I should be a better roommate and ask these things in advance, I thought.

  “You really want to hear about my work?” His voice was warm, like he didn’t expect me to be actually interested enough to ask. It gave me a touch of the guilt, seeing as he’d asked me plenty about my drawings.

  “I do.” I sipped my wine, and handed him the head of garlic he pointed to.

  “So I know I talk about the France thing like it’s all about debauchery, but I really couldn’t justify a trip there just for fun with the student loans I’m going to have to start paying soon. So I’d planned on spending a good amount of time working on research for a book I’m writing about William T. Fitzsimons and Wayne Miner.” He pulled a couple cloves off and smashed them with the flat part of his knife before peeling them.

  “Who are they?” I asked. I’d have to remember that garlic trick. Much better than scrabbling at it like I probably would have.

  “The first officer and last soldier to die in the Great War, as far as anyone can tell—both from Kansas City. Bookends to such a tragic time in history, and basically lost to it afterwards. Wayne Miner’s parents were born slaves, and he died fighting for our country’s continued freedom. It’s been a passion project of mine all through school, but I’ve tapped out all the research I can do in the bi-state area.” His voice was getting more animated, and he was gesturing with the knife. How did I never think to ask him about what he spent his every waking hour on up until this past few weeks?